


A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall

by Skew



Category: The Pacific - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-18
Updated: 2010-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-13 18:07:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skew/pseuds/Skew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Andrew Haldane nobly struggles with the Japanese, the weather, his grip on reality, and his increasingly unmanageable fondness for one of his own officers. Not necessarily in that order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wireless](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wireless/gifts).



> The standard disclaimer applies: This is entirely a work of fiction, and all characters are based on depictions in the HBO show. No insult or comparison is intended to anybody real.
> 
> Huge thanks to Uniformly for taking the time to read this over and helping me knock this unwieldy behemoth into shape.

**December 26th**

_Dear Mom and Dad,_

_We made our second landing today. As usual, I can't tell you when or where or why it happened, but I promise you, I'm alive and well._

_The landing itself couldn't have been easier. The shore was completely undefended, and we encountered only token pockets of resistance as we moved inland. Not counting insect bites and falling foul of stinging plants, there hasn't been a single injury._

_That's not saying I'm naïve enough to think this campaign's going to be easy. You should have seen the way the Navy were pounding the island as we approached. You wouldn't think anything could survive such a shellacking, but I learned on Guadalcanal that you never get that lucky. The Japanese – and the mosquitoes – are much tougher than that._

_I suspect the reason our landing was so calm was that the enemy think it's a waste to send troops to the coast, when they could stay sitting pretty in their bunkers and let us walk right up to their door. But with that said, we're better-trained and better-equipped than them, and I think we'll have overwhelmed them before long._

_That's enough war talk. I hope you all had a pleasant Christmas. I really wish I could have been there. You've all been in my thoughts a lot over the past few weeks. I hope the parcels I sent from Melbourne came through safely, and I'm happy to report that the care package and cards came through well on time. The new watch is very handsome, and the men and I made quick work of those chocolate bars. After that miserable affair the Corps calls a Christmas dinner, some real food was a change for the better._

_Give my love to -_

A drop of water fell on the paper, smearing the ink. Andrew cursed softly and started to blot it away, just as another, larger, drop splattered onto the page and obliterated most of the paragraph he'd just finished writing. He glanced upwards and saw the roof of the tent bulge alarmingly, water coming through several spots where the stitching was weak.

It had been raining hard all day. They'd first noticed it as they made their way to the shore: light drizzle at first, then a deluge, fresh water building up in the bottom of the LVT and soaking their boots before they'd even landed. It was a blessing that the fighting had been light, because struggling through the mud was a challenge in and of itself. They couldn't have got more than half a mile from the coast, if that.

Andrew sighed, discarded the ruined letter, and got to his feet to see what he could do about the leaking seams. As he did, one of the tent posts emitted an ominous creak, and one of the walls began to pitch inwards.

He didn't even bother to mute his swearing as he dashed outside, escaping just in time. The tent quivered, then imploded into a crumpled heap, hasty construction unable to withstand the force of the rain. That was the third time this night.

Andrew sighed and put a hand to his forehead. It was tempting to fall to his knees and howl.

"Need a hand, sir?"

He turned and saw Hillbilly hanging around nearby, holding a toothbrush and wearing an expression of amused concern.

"Christ, yes," Andrew said. He wasn't so proud as to turn down help, especially not at this time of night. Hillbilly nodded, wiped his mouth and tucked the toothbrush into his pocket, and came over to help. Reassembling a wet tent wasn't an easy job for two men, but it was vastly better than doing it alone.

"How long d'you think this rain is gonna hold up?" Hillbilly asked casually, as they drove one of the tent poles into the soft, mulchy soil. Andrew shrugged.

"Apparently the wet season's just started," he said. "It could go on like this for months." Noticing Hillbilly's eyes widening in horror, he added, "Look at it this way: we won't run short of drinkable water."

Hillbilly nodded. "That's something. Still, it's ruined my smokes. I was saving them up to celebrate a good landing, but they were nothing but pulp by the time we got here."

Andrew handed him the canvas, and they began to pull it over the tent frame, lashing the guy-ropes to nearby trees rather than trying to fasten them with pegs in the ground.

"Perhaps that's a blessing in disguise," he said. "Coach always told us that smoking would damage our performance on the field. Not that it stopped most of us, but I always felt it stood to reason that putting things in your mouth and setting fire to them can't be very good for you."

Hillbilly looked doubtful.

"I don't allow myself many vices, Skipper," he said. "Ain't you got any sympathy for me losing the only one I did?"

Andrew chuckled. "Well, you'll just have to find another."

"Like what? There's no booze, no brothels..."

"It'll have to be gambling, then. Or transvestitism. You'd look just darling in a frock."

Hillbilly shook his head, let out a long-suffering sigh. "It's a good thing you're my CO, or else I'd have cuffed you around the head for that."

"Wouldn't have said it if I didn't know I could get away with it," Andrew said, grinning widely. He stood back to admire their handiwork. The tent still shook in the wind, but it looked much sturdier than it had been before. He moved next to Hillbilly, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Thanks for helping me with this. I was just about ready to tear my hair out."

"Any time, sir," Hillbilly said. He flashed Andrew a fond smile, then turned and left. Andrew watched him go, standing there watching until Hillbilly's lanky silhouette was indistinguishable from the shadows of the trees, then headed back under cover. His letter would be ruined now, and his cot soaked through, but he didn't mind. He was so tired he'd sleep wherever he dropped.

 

**December 29th**

The rain didn't let up. Ever. There was some respite for maybe one or two hours in a day, total, but for the rest of the time it was a constant, torrential, downright fucking Biblical downpour. It was like every catastrophic Boy Scout camping trip of Andrew's youth condensed into the Platonic ideal of a bad holiday – and that wasn't even counting the risk of death.

For the past few days, they had been hiking inland, making slow but steady progress towards their objective. Patience with the terrain was already growing thin; Andrew could feel the men's morale dropping hour by hour as they trudged through viscous mud and waded up to their chests in pools of stagnant water. The tone of the conversations around him shifted as the day went on, casual chatter giving way to anger and frustration, and then to exhausted, defeated silence.

At night, they chose a stopping point, and made camp as best they could. The officers still maintained tents, but the men had taken to stringing hammocks up in the trees, draping themselves in mosquito nets and waterproof sheeting. It would be a fine idea if it weren't for the high winds that shook the branches, and the frequency with which trees fell in the night, bringing down any poor soul unlucky enough to be hitched to them. The hammock system hadn't claimed any casualties as yet, but on more than one occasion, Andrew had been roused in the dead of night to help save a man from drowning in the mud.

Andrew still preferred to keep to his tent, but he chose his pitch carefully.

 

Even writing reports had become a struggle. Rain dripping all over the page wasn't the half of it; the paper itself was becoming too damp to use, and Andrew's fountain pen hadn't survived immersion in the swamp they'd crossed the day before. Pencils were still usable, but the wet wood felt like it wasn't long for this world. What he was going to write in when all his supplies had rotted, Andrew had no idea. Knowing high command, they'd hand him a pen-knife and tell him they wanted the reports in blood.

"Evening."

Andrew turned, surprised. The squalling of the storm outside had drowned out the rustle of the tent flap that usually announced the arrival of a visitor. It was only Hillbilly, though, looking comically forlorn with water dripping off his helmet and his skinny legs sticking out from under his poncho.

"Good evening," Andrew said. "Take a seat, make yourself at home. I'm afraid the drinks cabinet is empty, and the butler is currently on vacation, but if you give me a moment I'll dash to the pantry and fix you some supper."

Hillbilly laughed, taking off his helmet and folding up his poncho, stashing them neatly beneath Andrew's cot.

"Some supper would be great after that excuse for a meal," he said. "Bad enough we've gotta live in the rain, but now they expect us to eat it?"

Andrew chuckled. "I don't think it's Cook's fault that the soup got so watery."

"I didn't find a single vegetable in mine. Not one. If I get scurvy, there'll be hell to pay." Hillbilly shook his head and loped over to the large trunk by Andrew's desk, flicking open the latches and taking the precious bundle inside.

"I think there's some crackers in there if you're still hungry," Andrew remarked, glancing over, but it wasn't food that Hillbilly had come to him for. He unwound layers of oiled canvas, withdrawing his guitar. Andrew had always found it charming how attached Hillbilly was to that old thing; he cradled it like a child, stroking its side with strange tenderness.

"How're you doing, old girl?" Hillbilly said, and ran the backs of his nails across the strings. The notes rang out strong and clear, if a little out of tune.

"Looks like you've done a good job of keeping her dry," Andrew commented.

"If only we could all wrap ourselves in oilcloth and hide in a box for the duration, huh?" Hillbilly said, starting to stroll back across the tent. Andrew got up, and held out a hand to halt him.

"Have my chair. It drips less over there than anywhere else," he said. "I'm gonna take a rest. I'll just have to deliver my report verbally. They can't expect me to write in conditions like this."

Hillbilly nodded. "Good idea."

Andrew's cot creaked loudly as he settled himself down upon it, shifting until he found the nearest approximation of comfortable possible. Hillbilly took his seat and re-tuned the guitar, then began to play. Whatever he was playing – nothing Andrew recognised – it wasn't anything like the strident hymns and marching tunes he used to entertain the men. It was soft and lilting; Andrew fancifully imagined it might be some old song that Hillbilly's mother might have sung when he was young, though it could have just as easily been something he overheard on the radio in Melbourne.

Hillbilly had his head bowed, deep in concentration, and Andrew took the opportunity just to watch him for a while. It was soothing to watch the flowing motion of Hillbilly's long fingers, to observe the way the lamplight caught the edges of his eyelashes and the line of his nose. During quiet moments like this, when he was too tired to bother pushing it away, Andrew would admit to himself that he'd grown very fond of Hillbilly Jones, far more than a good captain should. A lesser man might have panicked over the implications, but Andrew believed it would be alright as long as he kept it to himself; there was nothing illegal about simply enjoying another man's presence.

At some point, Hillbilly's playing must have lulled him to sleep, because the next thing he knew was that the lamp was out and the music had stopped, and he was lying there alone. He noted with a smile that Hillbilly had pulled a blanket over him before he left.

 

**December 31st**

_Dear Mom and Dad,_

_How have you been?_

_It's been very hectic, these past few days. This is the first chance I've had to sit down and write in a while, and I had to barter some of my rations to find a usable pencil. And Mom, before you write me another letter lecturing me about taking care of myself, I promise I'm still getting enough to eat. The Corps won't let a captain go hungry if they can help it._

_We took our objective today, and in double-quick time. Brass set it up so there were companies coming from all directions, and we were lucky enough to have tanks to support us. It's an awesome sight to see those machines rolling through the jungle, crushing everything in their path. Just as awesome was the dedication and fearlessness that my men displayed today. They're an unruly bunch at times, but when they get down to it and everyone plays their roles as instructed, it's a magnificent thing to witness._

Andrew may have told a little white lie there. It was magnificent, on the grand scale; it had certainly looked magnificent on the map two days ago, when the battalion commander had shown how each company's actions would intersect.

On the ground, though, much of the past couple of days had been nothing but an unholy bloodbath. On Guadalcanal, they had fought by night and often at a distance, blasting one another with MG fire across rivers and clearings. Here, they had charged on the airfield at dawn, scrambling through the dense undergrowth to meet an enemy whose position they couldn't even see. Tanks forged ahead to clear the bunkers, while the Marines fought hand-to-hand with the onslaught of defenders.

Andrew had been at the head of K Company throughout, constantly calling to his men so they didn't lose him among the foliage. He found that he adopted the same mindset that he slipped into when on the football field, reducing the world into positions and marks, focussing only on pushing the team ahead. Everything else – the roar of the crowd, the rattle of gunfire – was superfluous.

He yelled his commands, and the team fell in place for their captain: Gunny Haney charging forward with a banshee scream and gun blazing, his squad chasing after him; another of his sergeants racing up the other flank to cut off any Japanese trying to escape; Hillbilly dodging falling branches and leaping over tree stumps with strange serene grace, tossing grenades about almost casually.

By the evening of the 30th, Airfield No. 2 had been theirs. They slept like corpses that night, and watched proudly the following morning when the Stars and Stripes were raised above their new territory. (Andrew felt horribly unpatriotic when he noticed that the colours had, in fact, run, the white stripes stained a delicate shade of pink.)

It had been an unusually quiet afternoon. Andrew had spent some time writing letters, though he held little hope of them surviving long enough to get posted. When the humidity in his tent became unbearable, he left and headed out towards the airfield.

He found Hillbilly there, leaning back against the burned-out shell of a Japanese bomber. He had his eyes closed, and whether he was asleep or just resting was impossible to say.

"Hey, Hillbilly! I'd wondered where you'd got to," Andrew called.

Hillbilly smiled, not bothering to open his eyes, and gestured for Andrew to come and join him. Andrew approached, soles of his shoes squeaking on the asphalt, and he carefully lowered himself into place, leaning against Hillbilly's side. Neither man spoke; sometimes it was enough to have somebody with which to share the silence.

"How are the men?" Andrew said at last.

Hillbilly shrugged, bony shoulder dragging against Andrew's.

"Holding up," he said. "Wet, tired, cranky, but holding up. Can't ask for much more than that."

Andrew nodded. "It's been a heck of a week."

"You can say that again, Skipper."

"Still, we've got what we came for."

"D'you reckon it might get easier now?"

Andrew looked over at Hillbilly, who was now staring out across the airfield. He looked pale and exhausted, dark marks under his eyes. His hands were in his lap, thumb worrying at a nasty-looking rash on his wrist.

Andrew recalled how he'd looked in Melbourne, tanned and well-fed; lazing under a tree in a city park, smiling as he strummed his guitar. He considered reaching out and touching Hillbilly's cheek, as if he could rub some colour back into it, but swiftly discarded the thought and turned his mind to better things.

He followed Hillbilly's line of sight and for the first time, took in the state of the airfield. The surface was deeply pitted and cracked, rain pooling in the potholes. He sighed and made a disappointed noise with his tongue.

"They're going to have to do a lot of work to this place before they can use it," he remarked.

"Yeah, and if it's always like this -" Hillbilly gestured vaguely upwards. "Well, I don't envy the guys who are gonna have to fly out of here." He rubbed at his eyes, flicking raindrops off the end of his nose. "Makes you wonder why we went to the effort, doesn't it?"

Andrew reached over and gave Hillbilly's shoulder a squeeze. "Ours not to reason why."

Hillbilly gave him a sidelong look, mouth twitching up at one corner.

"They made us study that poem in high school," he said. "If I remember it rightly, the Light Brigade all got slaughtered because somebody at high command fucked up."

Andrew rolled his eyes, chuckling. "Pedant."

 

**January 1st**

Andrew didn't know which genius had given Suicide Creek its name, but if he ever met the man, he'd be having some very stern words. It was certainly an evocative title, but not much good for morale. The expressions on the men's faces when he had announced it as their next destination would have been priceless if he hadn't been so concerned about their ability so soon after taking the airfields.

K Company had been making their way to the creek's edge since dawn. Andrew called them to a stop, the men following his lead as he crouched down amidst the ferns.

Hillbilly, tailing behind, crept nearer.

"How close d'you think they are?" he whispered.

"Other side of the river, that's all we know," Andrew said. "Intel suggests there's a bunker complex, which should be fun, but at least there's no artillery."

Hillbilly nodded, eyes flashing bright under the shadow of his helmet.

"I'll go ahead and see if I can get a better view," Andrew said.

Hillbilly frowned. "Sure?"

"I won't go far. Just up to that log. Keep me covered."

"Okay," Hillbilly said, sounding a little anxious. "Good luck."

Andrew gave him a confident smile that he hoped would reassure him, patted his shoulder, then readied his gun. He inched forward, glad for the noise of wind and rain and rushing water to cover the sound of his advance. He paused by the log and pushed aside a low-hanging branch, peering through the gap to see what he could make out on the far side.

He couldn't see anything but jungle, but he knew they were there. They were probably under cover, the lucky bastards, just waiting to pick off anyone they saw wade into the creek.

He fumbled his binoculars from their case. The visibility was still poor, and the lenses fogged up fast, but he thought he could make out the outline of a bunker concealed in the trees.

He scanned across the water's edge, and started. He'd caught sight of the whites of someone's eyes.

Andrew paused to even out his breathing, and made his way back to Hillbilly.

"We're right by them," he said, pointing ahead. "All we have to do is cross the creek." He thought for a moment. "Keep the mortars back; the rest of us on advance. Once we're over, get flamethrower squads up front to clear out the bunker."

Hillbilly nodded. The anxiety had vanished from his expression, replaced by a look of stone-faced determination. "We ready, Skipper?"

Andrew smiled. "Let's go."

They rose together. Andrew turned, yelling at the top of his voice. "Let's go, K Company!"

The company charged.

 

**January 3rd**

_Dear Mom and Dad,_

_You've got to get me out of here._

_We've spent the past three days trying to cross a creek a few paces wide. It doesn't go higher than mid-shin at its deepest, but it flows so fast and the silt's so soft that a strong man would struggle to walk through it, and our tanks and artillery are completely stalled until the Seabees can construct a bridge. We aren't helped by the fact that the opposite side is lined with bunkers, though we'd be stuck for days even without several hundred Japanese hanging around ready to fire on anyone who so much as dips a toe in the water._

_I can't remember the last time I felt this frustrated. We outnumber and outgun the enemy in all respects, but we're constantly held back by the terrain. The only consolation I have is that they must be feeling as miserable as us, but I can't say I'm very comforted by the thought of other people's suffering, even when it's people who are murdering my friends and comrades._

_Mom, Dad, I'm losing it, I'm sure I'm starting to lose it. The rain's stolen everything: it's rotted away our socks and underwear, it's destroyed my paper and pencils and it's starting to eat my goddamn desk. It rots people's bodies. Many of the men are going around bearing ulcers the size of my fist on their feet and shins, or else finding fungus in the most unwelcome of places._

_It rots minds, too. Some men see and hear enemies all around them, even when they're safe. Others lose their will to live. They still fight; they just stop watching out for themselves, acting like they're dead and waiting for their body to catch up with them._

_There's one young man in my company who was always deeply religious. Last night, I heard him claim that he was Jesus reborn, and that he was crossing the river to tell the Japanese the good news. It caused great amusement among the men, right up until he took a bullet between the eyes._

_It's a good thing I can't really send you letters now, and just lie here making up imaginary missives when I can't sleep, because I know this isn't what you'd want to read. I've got to remain strong for you and the men. There's too many people depending on me for me to crumble. I still have faith in our cause. I know that we're winning this campaign._

_It just doesn't feel much like it right now._

It was the immobility that Andrew hated.

He felt trapped and tense, desperate to move forward and dreading what would happen when they did. It made him think of his Uncle William as a young man, waiting in the trenches at Messines. There'd been four Haldane brothers, of whom Andrew's father was the youngest. He'd set off for America in 1913 with five pounds in his pocket and a head full of wild ideas, and he'd timed it well, for it wasn't much later that war broke out and the remaining three enlisted.

William was the only one Andrew had ever met. He was a kindly man, indulgent of his only nephew, and a great teller of tall tales. But whenever Andrew asked him for stories of wartime glory, his expression would grow glassy and distant, and Auntie Eileen would sternly tell Andrew to not poke his nose into other people's pasts.

The Haldanes always had been a very private sort of family. Andrew had been in his teens before he discovered that the reason he never saw his other uncles was that Uncle Malcolm had died when his boat was sunk off the Indian coast, and that Uncle Angus had gone mad in Egypt and now lived in an institution in Kirkcaldy. The family tended to behave like neither of them had ever existed.

Andrew had never understood any of it until now. His big sister had given birth not long after he'd shipped out to Guadalcanal. If his own little nephew ever asked him for war stories, he might tell him about training or the things they got up to in Melbourne, but he couldn't imagine ever telling him about Suicide Creek.

That was assuming he got home at all, of course; that was assuming he didn't become another relative who wasn't to be spoken of in polite company.

 

While their progress forward was blocked, Andrew threw himself into finding other ways to stay busy. He helped the men with rebuilding tents and waterproofing ammunition; he studied maps of the island until he had the cape's geography burned on to the inside of his eyelids. He took any opportunity he could to discuss new intelligence and further campaigns with the brass, and regularly conferred with the COs of the other companies held up by the creek.

That afternoon, he'd intended to round up K Company's officers and discuss their plans for when they finally made the crossing. Predictably, he'd gone to look for Hillbilly first. Andrew couldn't find him in his tent, or any of his other usual haunts around the camp. He was starting to worry, until he heard the sound of singing coming from behind the officers' tents.

What the heck was he doing out there? Andrew waded through the undergrowth, and emerged into a little clearing he hadn't known existed. He meant to call to Hillbilly to get his attention, but the sight that met him stopped the words in his throat.

Hillbilly was stripped off, showering in the rain, trying to make lather from a gritty sliver of soap. Andrew had washed with Hillbilly and numerous other officers on many occasions, but he'd never had the chance to actually look at him before. Water and soap suds cascaded down his broad shoulders; dappled light gleamed off his buttocks and flanks. Andrew's mouth had suddenly become terribly dry.

It really shouldn't have had that effect. Hillbilly was too thin, his ribs visible when he inhaled. His skin was marred with cuts and bruises. Sores were creeping up his legs. Despite that, Andrew wanted nothing more than to walk over and mould himself to Hillbilly's back, to press a kiss to the spot on the back of his neck where a rivulet of water trickled from his hair.

He drew a deep breath, and moved to leave, when Hillbilly suddenly turned.

"Oh, sir," he said, cheerful and unashamed. "I didn't see you there."

It took every ounce of moral strength that Andrew possessed to keep his eyes fixed on Hillbilly's face.

"Nothing to worry about. I wanted to have a talk about tactics, but it can wait until you're decent," he said, struggling to keep his voice steady.

Hillbilly chuckled. "Well, I figured since all this rain is here, I might as well make use of it." He held the soap out to Andrew. "You're welcome to come join me."

Andrew's stomach flipped. His head was a sudden jumble of images: Hillbilly helping him out of his wet clothes, his fingers following the trails of raindrops down Hillbilly's chest, kissing with the warm water beating down on them both. The sound of the camp going about its business not more than a few yards away quickly brought him back to reality, and he dismissed the idea as unworkable.

He smiled and shook his head. "Maybe later," he said. "I'll leave you to it."

"Right you are, Skipper."

Andrew turned away. Behind him, Hillbilly started humming again, lathering up more soap. Andrew felt sorely tempted to just run and hurl himself into the creek.

 

**January 4th**

They crossed Suicide Creek early that morning. The tanks led the way, rolling ponderously across the log bridge. The enemy responded fast; within seconds of the first tank reaching the far bank, somebody had darted in and fixed mines to its side, Marines scrambling up to defuse them just in time to avert disaster.

It was carnage, but it was brief. The bunkers were well-fortified but no match for Shermans, and the defenders, though they'd had plenty of time to prepare for the attack, simply didn't have the numbers to deal with tanks and Marines on foot arriving all at once. They were over the creek and past the bunker complex by noon.

A brief lunch was the only rest they got. The order came soon afterwards to press on ahead to Aogiri Ridge. No location by that name was marked on their maps, but Marines fighting in the south-east on Target Hill had captured enemy documents that revealed this hill to be a Japanese stronghold.

There were several hills that loomed in the distance past Suicide Creek. The company walked for hours, but none of the hills seemed to be getting anywhere near. Andrew walked back and forth along the line of men as they marched, stopping now and then to engage them in conversation. Some of them were in fine fettle - Gunny seemed elated by a good day's fighting, and Snafu Shelton proudly showed Andrew his growing collection of gold teeth. Others, though, were too tired or unsettled to talk. Most were limping to some extent, some only able to move with the support of their friends, and all of them looked the worse for wear.

 

**January 10th**

_Dear Mom and Dad,_

_It's good thing I can't write you real letters to send, because I've nothing good to tell you, and no way to do justice to the things I've seen._

Finding Aogiri Ridge had been the first challenge.

At first they had believed it to be the area marked as Hill 150. When they overran it with ease but continued to be harassed by ambushes, they realised Aogiri lay further on. They hiked deeper inland, and on the night of the 8th, made their camp at the bottom of a sharply rising slope. Their sleep that night was disturbed by bursts of fire and erratic raids; Aogiri Ridge, it seemed, had found them.

K Company had spent their time since then struggling up the slope, the risk of mudslides as much of a problem as the constant surprise attacks. The tanks that had assisted them across the airfield and Suicide Creek were unable to cope with the angle of the terrain; they had to make do with what could be pulled up by hand. The heaviest weapon they had was a single artillery gun, which a squad of men had pulled up the slope by themselves while under heavy fire. Four of them had been cut down on the way, 3rd Battalion's own commanding officer coming forward to assist them.

_I've seen so many things. Riflemen charging when up to their knees in mud. Men running into the line of fire to help their fallen comrades. Medics giving aid with the jungle exploding around them._

_I've seen enemies surrender and then blow themselves up when we take them behind our lines._

_I've seen our own men desecrating corpses, stripping them of their possessions and mutilating their bodies. Boys of eighteen choking on their own blood. Hardened veterans crying out in terror and anguish._

_I've seen a lot of things, and I'm having difficulty not seeing them._

At dusk on the 9th, they dug in near the ridge's peak, not more than ten yards from the bunkers on the other side of the slope.

When dawn came on the 10th, the Japanese attacked. The Marines cut them down; then came another wave, and another. They were almost out of ammunition by the time the fourth wave was done with. Fresh supplies arrived only just in time before a fifth attack took place.

_It felt like they'd never stop coming. We fired and fired until we had nothing more to fire, and still they came._

_Do you remember all those Civil War pictures you took me to when I was young? The fighting was always so clean. A gunshot would ring out and a man would just crumple and fall._

_It's nothing like that in real life. Real bullets tear gaping wounds. They spill guts and brains, shatter bone and shear off limbs. Dying men don't collapse without a sound, or groan and gently close their eyes after delivering a heroic final speech. They bleed out, gasping and choking and begging for someone to put them out of their misery._

_The sun had just finished rising when we finally crossed the ridge. We walked down to the bunkers that they'd came from, and there wasn't a single man alive down there. They'd thrown every man they had into that last defence of their stronghold, and we butchered them._

_I'm never sure how much sympathy to have for the Japanese. They believe in death before dishonor, and glory in violent self-sacrifice. I'm told they bring up their young men to be fanatics who worship their Emperor as a god and believe foreigners are subhuman beasts._

_But unlike some of the men – possibly most of them – I can't think of them as animals or monsters. Japanese men bleed and die like any other man, and most of them look as exhausted and frightened as our own troops when they come running at us. Even if the wild-eyed teenager I cut down with my rifle is eager to die for his country, his mother'll still weep for him at home._

There was an unsettling silence when they made camp at the end of that long day. Normally the men would talk and joke when they set up their hammocks and shared out their food, but that evening very few words were exchanged between anyone.

Andrew kept a lookout for signs of any too far gone to be of use any more. All of them wore strained expressions, but strain was usual. It was the stare that had to be watched out for, the nervous tics, the hands still clawed to hold a rifle that wasn't there.

On his way to his bunk, he passed a young private pacing like a caged bear, walking an anxious path around the tents. His name was Lynde, he believed, a young private who had been assigned to the company in Melbourne.

"Private Lynde," Andrew said. Lynde didn't stop pacing. He was wringing his hands, constantly looking around himself.

"Lynde," Andrew repeated. "What are you looking for?"

"Japs, Captain, gotta keep on the lookout for Japs. They're everywhere, sir. Could be moving in on us right now."

Andrew walked forward, a hand stretched outward to stop Lynde in his tracks.

Lynde stared. "Captain, what are you doing?"

Andrew patted Lynde's arm. "Let me do the looking out, private. You need to get some rest. It's been a long day for all of us."

"But they're still there!" Lynde waved his arms, gesturing around himself. "Can't you see them? If we go to sleep they'll come and get us."

"Nobody will get you, Lynde. We have a rota of men appointed to keep watch throughout the night," Andrew said. "Go to sleep. I need you fresh for tomorrow."

Lynde laughed, a jarring high-pitched giggle. "I can't, sir. I'd like to, but I can't. Please, let me stay up. I'll keep watch. I'll do the whole shift. I -"

Andrew put an arm around Lynde's shoulders, the gesture brotherly but his grip firm, and began guiding him towards the hammocks. He found the rest of Lynde's squad setting themselves up for the night.

"Jesus Christ, it's Gerald!" one of them called. "Where'd you find him, Captain?"

"Lynde's very tired," Andrew instructed them. "I want you boys to keep an eye on him and make sure he's safe." He turned back to Lynde, placing a hand on each shoulder. "You've more than earned yourself a good night's sleep. Take it while you have the chance."

Lynde still seemed very doubtful, but he acquiesced, steadying himself with deep breaths before climbing up to his hammock.

"Good night, everyone," Andrew said, turning away. What Lynde really needed was a break, a few days away from the lines, but he couldn't offer that. He could only hope that some sleep might sort him out. If it didn't – well, he'd deal with that tomorrow. Right now, he was in dire need of some rest himself.

 

Andrew walked back to his tent, and collapsed on his cot fully clothed. Despite his exhaustion, sleep wouldn't come. His body felt heavy but his mind was racing, refusing to let him settle down. It was a mercy of sorts when Hillbilly came in, ducking as he pushed through the flap.

"Hey, sir," he whispered. "I'm not disturbing you, am I?"

Andrew sat up, the sudden shift in altitude making his head spin.

"No, no, it's fine. I can't sleep anyhow." He stretched, trying to work out the stiffness he could feel creeping in. "How's it going? Have you checked on the men?"

"They're all tucked up in bed, Pa, and I made sure they scrubbed their faces and said their prayers before they went," Hillbilly said.

He moved towards Andrew's desk; a moment's fumbling with his Zippo and he had the lamp lit. The light caught his cheek, showing up a nasty cut along his jaw.

"Your face -" Andrew started, concerned.

"That?" Hillbilly laughed, raising his hand to it. "I cut myself shaving a couple of days ago. The blades on my razor are rusted to hell."

"Oh, now it all becomes clear. Yes, Hillbilly, you can borrow mine, thank you for asking."

Hillbilly grinned. He didn't need the razor, Andrew thought; he had a haze of shadow across his jawline and upper lip, but his cheeks were still smooth. Hillbilly was a curious-looking man, both boyish and aged before his time. He was incapable of looking neat, thanks to his gangling limbs and haywire hair, yet no matter how scruffy or filthy he became, he somehow always appeared professional.

"Very generous of you, sir," Hillbilly said. "It was beginning to tick me off." He sighed. "Shit, it's bad enough being up to our necks in Japs all day long without my own possessions trying to kill me too."

"It's not your razor's fault, it's the rain's fault," Andrew said.

It was coming through the canvas again, forming a puddle a few inches away from where he'd put his chair. Another, smaller leak was tapping out a regular rhythm on the trunk where Hillbilly had his guitar.

"Yeah, it's the rain," Hillbilly said heavily, "It's always the goddamn rain." He stopped, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Andrew leaned forward. "What's up?"

Hillbilly breathed in deeply, nostrils flaring and teeth tightly clenched. "I'm sick to death of it, that's what's up. I'm sick of the mud, I'm sick of the wind, I'm sick of everything I own falling apart. My legs hurt so bad I can hardly walk, and..." He stopped, lowering his head. "I'm sorry, sir, you don't need to hear this."

Andrew pushed up off the bed, walking over to lay a hand on Hillbilly's shoulder. "I do need to hear this. If one of my lieutenants is suffering, it's my duty to offer him all the support I can."

Hillbilly shook his head. "I'm fine, Skipper, I am. I'm just tired, that's all. I'll be back to myself tomorrow morning."

"You don't have to repress it. It's normal to hate this place. I know I do. Being an officer doesn't mean you have to pretend to be invincible." Hillbilly looked so defeated, and it made something in Andrew's chest ache in sympathy. The hand he had resting on Hillbilly's shoulder tightened. "Oh, come here."

Andrew stepped forward and pulled Hillbilly into a hug. He'd meant it to be brief, the kind of quick, reassuring pat on the back he might give a first-time player just before they went out onto the field, but Hillbilly let out a soft sigh and rested his head on Andrew's shoulder, and Andrew didn't want to let go.

He closed his eyes and gave in to it. He ran his hands down Hillbilly's back, trying to ease the tension from him. Hillbilly's breathing began to even out and his stance relaxed. His own hands began to move too, fingertips running through Andrew's hair and down the back of his neck, shivery sensation running through him and pooling in his stomach.

Andrew's face was turned against Hillbilly's neck. He inhaled the scent of wet earth and old sweat, a smell that wasn't especially pleasant but reminded him of morning training in the fall. His lips rested on Hillbilly's pulse; not kissing, but intimate nevertheless.

He could have remained like that a long time, if not for a sudden gust of wind and rain blasting in from the unfastened tent flap that jerked him back to reality. He pulled away, a hand still resting on Hillbilly's waist.

"Better?" he asked.

Hillbilly gave him a sad smile. "Thank you. For everything."

He stepped forward, and before Andrew could say anything, leaned down and kissed him. It was nothing more than a quick peck on the lips, but when Hillbilly pulled back Andrew chased after it, demanding more. They moved back into each other's arms, trading soft, cautious kisses which, as they both relaxed, lingered and grew deeper. Hillbilly opened his mouth, coaxing Andrew's tongue inwards. It became a game of teasing and exploring as they took turns to learn the taste and feel of each other's mouths. Andrew started to plant kisses along the line of Hillbilly's jaw, licking down his exposed throat as his head fell back, teeth scraping against the delicate skin.

"Skipper -" Hillbilly gasped, and the sudden reminder of who and where he was hit Andrew like a bucket of ice water.

He pulled away sharply. Their eyes met; Hillbilly's confusion turned to understanding, then guilt, and he rushed to wipe his mouth and straighten out his clothing.

"I should go," he said.

Andrew nodded. "I think that's for the best."

Hillbilly gave him a quick, tight smile, and backed out of the tent at great speed. Andrew sighed, sitting to remove his boots and then curling up on his cot. What had just happened already felt like nothing more than a dream.

 

**January 13th**

None of the fighting that followed was as relentless or prolonged as that on Aogiri Ridge. That was not to say that the skirmishes that took place were any easier, but the tedious lulls between the flashes of pure terror grew longer.

Andrew took advantage of the pause in combat to make sure his men got the medical attention they were in dire need of. Some were sent away, others given tablets (or stern admonitions to take the ones they had already been given; Andrew himself had been going around telling the newer Marines lurid tales of how hideous he had felt when he caught malaria on Guadalcanal, and the utmost importance of taking Atabrine no matter how queasy it made one feel). A lot of them weren't sick enough to be discharged, but still too sick to be near combat strength. The medics tried hard, but what they could do was severely limited.

Andrew wandered through the encampment, looking in on the doctors at their work. He stopped by one, disgusted and enthralled by the sight of some kind of parasitic worm being pulled from a man's shin.

"Anything we can help you with, Captain?" the doctor said. He gave the worm dangling from the end of his tweezers a thoughtful look, then discarded it.

"Me? No, I'm fine," Andrew said.

The doctor smirked. "Don't martyr yourself, sir," he said. "You've got quite a limp there. It's better you let me take a look now and see if I can deal with it now than play the stoic and get yourself crippled."

Andrew acquiesced, sitting himself down on a log that crawled with tiny, biting insects. He unlaced his boots and hitched up his dungarees as the doctor crouched to examine him.

"I can only apologise for the smell," Andrew said.

The doctor laughed. "I barely noticed it, Captain. You learn to shut these things out after a few rounds on the dysentery wards." He took one foot and turned it over in his hands, peering at it closely.

"While we're talking about feet," Andrew said hesitantly, "has anyone attended to Lieutenant Jones yet?"

"Jones, Jones – tall skinny man, unusual accent, bit of jungle rot around the lower limbs?"

Andrew nodded. "That'd be him."

"Yeah, did my best to tidy him up," the doctor said, switching his attention to the other foot. "If he keeps clean and takes his penicillin, he'll be alright. I've seen much worse cases than that."

He put Andrew's foot down, and stroked his chin. "As for you, you'd better take care of yourself. You've got the beginnings of tropical immersion foot going on there."

"Tropical immersion foot?"

"Think trench foot, but caused by warm water," the doctor said. "You need to keep your feet dry."

Andrew was not impressed. The rain had been beating down steadily on them both throughout their conversation, and his response to the doctor's prescription was to fold his arms and raise a single eyebrow, head cocked to one side. The doctor snickered.

"Look, Captain, I just make the diagnosis and recommend a course of action," he said, holding his hands up. "It's not my fault if nature won't let you carry it out."

 

**January 17th**

The patrol was silent as it moved through the undergrowth, each man alert to the slightest disturbance. The map suggested they weren't far from yet another bunker. After Suicide Creek, there would be no rash charges made until they were assured of support, but Andrew had led a squad out to get a better understanding of their position. They walked in single file, moving fast; the ground was sticky underfoot, liable to swallow a man if he lingered too long.

A branch crashed down in front of them, blown down by the wind, and somebody yelped in surprise. There was a loud rustle, followed by an earsplitting scream, and Andrew had just enough time to think here we go again before leaping into action.

He yelled out a command for suppressing fire, shooting one man and wheeling round to take down another with the butt of his rifle. More enemies arrived, attracted by the commotion.

Andrew's mind was racing. It felt like everything was taking place at half speed, attackers moving like they were under water, telegraphing their next movements to him. He was certain he could see the trajectories of bullets as they were fired.

Then from the corner of his eye, he saw Hillbilly stumble and fall.

Time sped up again. The forest spun around him, the cacophony of shouts and gunfire deafened him. If not for the other Marines covering him, Andrew could have easily have become another casualty as he dashed to Hillbilly's aid.

"Hillbilly!"

The bushes rustled, and Hillbilly sat up. He was covered in mud and he'd lost his helmet, but he appeared to be otherwise fine.

"Sir?" He felt around and relocated his helmet, placing it back on his head.

"Are you alright?" Andrew said, crouching down beside him.

"'Sides from a bruised ass? Never better," Hillbilly said. Andrew offered a hand and hauled them both to their feet. "I skidded over in the mud."

Andrew laughed shakily. "Christ, you gave me a scare. When I saw you going down like that, I thought you'd been hit."

"Not today, thank God," Hillbilly said. He lifted his head, looking forward. "Was that all of them?"

Andrew squinted through the trees. "Well, all of the ones that came to get us."

He strode out from behind the bush, signalling for the rest of the men to gather round. "We've done enough for now. Let's head back before their friends come to see what happened."

 

When they returned to the camp, Andrew reported to the battalion commander on what they'd found. The CO wanted to talk tactics, pressing him for details and enquiring as to his own thoughts on how they should progress, but Andrew found it hard to focus, and was thoroughly relieved when finally dismissed and allowed to retreat to the sanctuary of his tent.

The memory of that moment – the split second of pure blind terror when he'd thought Hillbilly had been hit – played over and over in his mind. He made a point of telling the men not to dwell on the horrors they had seen, but he found himself unable to follow his own advice.

The really stupid thing was, it hadn't been serious. But if it had -

If he'd come through the bushes to find Hillbilly bleeding out -

If he'd been dead before he could even get to him -

It would have broken him.

When he enlisted, Andrew made a vow to himself that he wouldn't go seeking romance. It wasn't fair, he felt, to make any commitments when he couldn't even guarantee he'd be alive in a few months' time. Before the war, he'd been going steady for a couple of years with a girl called Mary Lorraine; she was charming and kind and loving her was sweet and easy, but when he'd enlisted, they'd come to the mutual agreement that it would be best to break it off, and maybe start again if the spark was still there when he returned. He'd missed her awfully during training, but recently, he'd not thought of her at all.

He'd flirted and danced with any number of pretty Aussie girls in Melbourne, but never asked any on a date. He hadn't even slept with any of them, though he was sure he could have if he'd wished.

He hadn't wished, though, because when his guard was down he'd gone and fallen in love with Hillbilly instead. It didn't matter whether he acted on it or not. His judgment was already biased beyond any hope of salvation. The only rational course of action would be to transfer him out to another company, but he just didn't have the moral backbone to do it.

He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and even before the person on the other side entered the tent, Andrew knew who it would be. The last person he wanted to see. The only person he wanted to see.

Hillbilly paused at the tent's entrance, carefully closing it behind him. His face was shadowed by his helmet, expression impossible to read, but his body language suggested hesitance. He usually had an excuse to be here, but he didn't seem to have thought of one tonight.

Andrew got up off his cot. "Is there something you came here for?"

Hillbilly shrugged. "Just the company, I suppose." He gave Andrew an awkward smile. "How are you? I hope you don't mind me saying it, but you looked kinda spooked out there today."

"I've been kind of spooked for days," Andrew said. "I just appear to be getting worse at dealing with it. You're not the only person who's sick of this place, you know." He shook his head, feeling rather sheepish. "You know, for a moment back there, I really did think you'd been hit. I was scared out of my mind."

"I have moments like that all the time," Hillbilly admitted. "You're always putting yourself up front, out there on your own..." He fidgeted with the strap dangling off the side of his helmet, turning away. "If you want to be left alone to get some rest, I understand."

Andrew reached out and grasped Hillbilly's wrist. "No, don't go."

Their eyes met. Hillbilly reached up with his free hand, fingers trembling as he removed his helmet. It fell with a dull thud on the ground by his feet. He stepped closer, and Andrew let go of his wrist.

"Skipper," Hillbilly whispered, laying his hand on Andrew's cheek. "It's breaking my heart to see you like this."

Andrew let out a nervous, shaky laugh. He stepped closer still, until they were standing chest to chest. "We're a mess, aren't we?"

Hillbilly closed his eyes, nudged the tip of his nose against Andrew's. His mouth curved into the faintest hint of a smile. "I won't tell if you won't."

They kissed. It wasn't a very good kiss, not at first; it was awkward and unhappy, teeth knocking and stubble scratching. But when they found the right angle, everything else fell into place. Andrew looped his arms around Hillbilly's slender waist and pulled him close, clinging to him as their kisses deepened. Hillbilly's tongue darted forward and Andrew welcomed him in, groaning softly.

Hillbilly pulled back slightly, giving Andrew a concerned look. "Sir, is this alright with you?"

Andrew bit his lip. He was beyond caring about the inconveniences of rank and location, but he couldn't let this stand.

"Please, don't call me 'sir'. Not here." He laid a hand on Hillbilly's chest, spoke more softly. "People back home called me Andy."

"Andy Haldane," Hillbilly said, drawing the words out, savouring the feel of them in his mouth. He smiled. "It's got a ring to it."

Andrew pulled the dog tags from under Hillbilly's collar, twisted the chain around his fingers, ran his thumb over the name stamped onto the metal.

"There must be something nicer to call you than 'Hillbilly'," he said, and glanced down at the tags. "Edward sounds a little formal, though."

"It's Eddie," Hillbilly said. "Though nobody's called me that for a long time. Not since I left home."

"Eddie," Andrew said thoughtfully. "I like it. It suits you. You definitely look like an Eddie."

"What's that meant to mean?" Eddie started, but Andrew had had enough of talk. He pressed a wet kiss to Eddie's neck, another on the edge of his collarbone. He let go of the dog tags and started undoing the top button of Eddie's shirt, then stopped. There was a line here, and if he crossed it, there wasn't any going back.

"May I?" he whispered. Eddie swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing. He managed a lopsided grin.

"If you take yours off first."

Andrew had no problem with that. He took off his shirt as fast as his shaking, clumsy fingers would let him, peeling the sodden fabric from his torso and hurling it across the tent. He was slower when he did the same for Eddie, lingering over each button, tracing his fingertips over Eddie's skin as more and more of it was revealed. Eddie wasn't like anybody he'd ever touched before. He was built like a whippet, all angles and bones and tightly wound energy, and Andrew wished he had the time to linger longer. He wasn't sure there was time enough in a lifetime for him to know Eddie's body as well as he wanted, though he'd be very happy to try and see how far he could get.

"You really are beautiful, you know," Andrew said, running his fingers over the sharp jut of Eddie's hip.

Their eyes met. There was something fierce in Eddie's expression that Andrew had never seen before.

"C'mere, you," Eddie said. He caught Andrew by the chain of his tags and pulled him in for more kisses, harder and more urgent than before. Andrew spread his hands wide across Eddie's back, feeling the ridges of his spine, the slide of his sharp shoulderblades, dragged his hands up to rake through Eddie's hair from where it was short and prickly at the back to longer and wilder at the top. Their chests were pressed together, skin to skin, and Andrew couldn't tell which was which of the two racing heartbeats he could feel.

There was something else he could feel pulsing too, hard against his thigh, and the realisation of it sent a spike of arousal through him that almost knocked him off his feet. He backed Eddie across the tent, kissing wildly, until they came to a sudden stop against Andrew's desk. Eddie groaned and hitched one of his legs up by Andrew's hip, arching up against him. Andrew could hardly breathe. It felt like years since he'd enjoyed any kind of physical affection, and it had never felt quite like this. No woman had ever been bold enough to kiss and touch him the way Eddie did - none of his clandestine experimental fumbles with male friends at college had been so impassioned - nobody, full stop, had ever made Andrew feel so overwhelmed.

He pulled back, dragging in deep lungfuls of air. Eddie was watching him hopefully, eyes bright and a mischievous grin on his face. The bad seam was leaking again, raindrops spattering on Eddie's chest, and Andrew ducked his head to lap them up. He flicked the tip of his tongue over Eddie's nipple, feeling it stiffen in response; laid wet kisses down his stomach, slowly falling to his knees in the soil.

His hands rested on Eddie's hips, framing the erection that strained hard at his threadbare dungarees. Andrew kissed it through the warm fabric, dragging his lips up along the warm length of it. He licked down the long crease where Eddie's hip and torso met, pulling open his fly and exposing him to the humid air. Eddie gasped, hands scrabbling for purchase on the desk behind him, hanging on to it for dear life to stop his legs from giving way beneath him. He looked almost painfully hard, cock flushed deep pink, jutting firmly out. Andrew turned his head and breathed a slow stream of warm air across it, and Eddie shivered.

"Oh, Andy," he said, quiet, almost reverent. Andrew closed his eyes and rested his head against Eddie's thigh, trying to calm his erratic heartbeat and constricted breathing. He wanted to say it all now, pour out every single stupid, unrealistic, sentimental thought he'd ever had about the man, tell him how much he needed him to be his anchor in this endless storm. But Eddie had always been able to read him perfectly, and Andrew felt he probably knew it all already.

So instead he shifted his head and kissed the tip of Eddie's cock. It'd been a very long time since he'd done anything like this, and he started slowly, licking long wet stripes from balls to tip and back down again. He swirled his tongue around the head, lapped at the sensitive spot just beneath. Eddie let out tiny, choked whimpers and gasps, his knuckles whitening as he clung tighter to the desk. Andrew wanted to close his eyes, but forced himself to keep looking upwards - watching Eddie's muscles twitch and tense, his expression amazed and adoring and lustful all at once.

He spat into his hand and began to stroke Eddie firmly, hand and mouth working together to enclose his cock. Andrew's own cock was aching with need, and without really thinking, he reached down and roughly squeezed himself through the fabric of his pants. He moaned, and the reverberations set Eddie off moaning too. He'd never heard anything in his life so arousing as the sound of Eddie's voice when he was taken over with pleasure.

"Andy," Eddie groaned, the word a long drawn-out plea. "Andy, stop."

Andrew pulled away, frowning up at him. Eddie looked magnificent, shining with rain and sweat, swollen spit-slick cock hanging heavy between his thighs.

"What's wrong?" he said.

"I need to touch you," Eddie said, descending, and then before Andrew knew it, he was flat on his back on the ground.

Eddie was all over him with hands and lips, licking his neck and chest, fumbling open his pants to take hold of him. They must have looked ridiculous - two grown men rutting in the soil, pants around their ankles - but even if General Rupertus had strode in right then and demanded to know what was going on, Andrew didn't think he could have stopped himself. Not when he was kissing Eddie, gasping against his mouth, bucking into his fist while encouraging him to grind against his thigh, hands on Eddie's ass to guide his movements.

Eddie's movements were growing more and more erratic. He'd been gazing down at Andrew this whole time, but now his eyes finally slipped shut and he threw his head back. His spine arched, and he let out a single broken cry as he came, spending himself across Andrew's stomach and chest.

His head dropped and he let out a low groan, chest heaving. Andrew ran soothing hands down his back, reached up to cup his face. Eddie opened his eyes again and smiled; he dropped a light kiss on Andrew's forehead and rolled to his side. He ran his fingers through the mess on Andrew's belly, then closed his hand back around Andrew's cock. Andrew surrendered to it completely. He dug his fingers into the earth and jerked his hips up into Eddie's tightly-gripping fist. The storm outside seemed to be getting worse, the sound of the rain drumming on the canvas growing louder and louder as heat and pressure grew, the howling of the wind swallowing his cries as he writhed and bucked.

"Come on," Eddie murmured into his ear, accent slow and thick. "C'mon, Andy. For me."

A wave was coming, growing and growing until it finally crashed onto the shore, and Andrew let it sweep him away.

When he came back to himself, Eddie had curled himself around him, an arm over his chest and his face against Andrew's neck. Andrew put an arm around his shoulders, idly stroking Eddie's hair. They rested that way for a long time, listening to the rain.

Eddie grunted vaguely, tried to shift himself.

"What?" Andrew said.

"My arm's going numb," Eddie said. Andrew snorted.

"Yeah, well, I've got your hair in my mouth."

Eddie giggled, then burst out into full-throated laughter, pulling Andrew over into a crushing bear hug. Andrew found himself laughing too - here he was, dirty, naked and exhausted, and he hadn't felt so good in days.

"What are we going to do with ourselves?" Eddie said, sitting up. He was a complete shambles, hair even more askew than normal, skin streaked with semen and dirt; it was inexplicably adorable. Andrew tried to move, but found himself too boneless to sit. Instead, he flopped over onto his back again, staring up at the tent ceiling.

"I haven't a clue," he said. "I honestly haven't a clue."

He reached out, fumbling around until he found Eddie's hand. He settled his palm over it and squeezed tightly. "But at least we'll do it together."

 

**January 18th**

They retraced the path they had taken the day before, but now the rest of the battalion followed with them. There was no point in being stealthy now; the men waiting in the bunkers would feel the rumble of approaching tanks long before the Marines arrived.

Andrew felt like hell. His whole body ached and his feet were worse than ever. They didn't have anything like enough ammunition, and though taking this land would be easy, it would only be the tiniest step towards their final goal.

When he could see the outline of the bunker, he signalled for the company to stop, men taking up positions behind him. Eddie was right beside him; his arm brushed against Andrew's, and he turned to flash Andrew a quick, bright smile.

Andrew felt a sudden glow of warmth deep inside, and for the first time in some while, he actually believed that everything was going to be alright. He smiled, feeling that glow kindle itself into a bright flame inside his chest.

"Let's go!" he yelled, and he grinned as he raced forward into the attack.

 

**April 7th**

_Dear Mom and Dad,_

_We left New Britain today. We're being sent off to rest on some other island you'll have never have heard of, and we probably won't have time to catch our breaths before they find us some other wasteland to conquer – but for now, we are relieved and at peace. God willing, we'll be at peace permanently before long._

_I can't wait to see you all again, and pick up my life where I left off. I'm thinking of bringing someone back with me. I'm sure you'd like him – he's quiet and calm and doesn't make any mess. Heck, even if you don't like him, I think I might bring him back anyway._

_I'll be able to write to you for real soon, and I'll tell you nice, bland, reassuring things that won't trouble the censors. I won't tell you about all the men we've lost to injury, disease or mental disintegration. I won't tell you how close I came to falling apart myself, or the ways I found of keeping myself together._

_I'll still be glad to hear from you again._

Andrew leaned against the wall that ran along the edge of the deck, looking out over the prow, watching that hateful shore recede into the distance. From out here, Cape Gloucester looked quite beautiful. Only the dark clouds massed above it hinted at the reality.

Eddie was sleeping beside him, a comfortable weight against his legs. Andrew had been surprised by how little had changed between them; they'd already been so close as friends that being lovers made no difference. In fact, he suspected, in some way they'd been lovers for a long time. It had just taken a while for the two of them to become conscious of it.

The months that had passed since that night in his tent had still been hard. The fighting had become less and less frequent – at least until the final big push on Japanese headquarters – but disease and fatigue took an increasing toll. Andrew had never reached the depths he had reached in the first few weeks, though, because he knew Eddie would always be there for him, a reminder that there was honesty and decency even in this most debased of situations. He had lived for the rare moments they could spend together – not just the hasty kisses stolen under cover of foliage or the rushed, fumbling sex in his tent, but the times they had to sit and talk, or simply rest with one another.

They shouldn't have taken such an outlandish risk, but at the same time, Andrew suspected they would never have become so intensely attached if it hadn't been for the risks inherent to it. The timing was terrible, the circumstances couldn't be less favourable, but if anybody could make such an ill-advised affair work out, he believed it might be them.

Eddie shifted, stirring beside him. Andrew looked down.

"Afternoon," he said. Eddie grunted vaguely, rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He looked up at Andrew, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun.

"What are you smiling about?" he said.

Andrew grinned; he patted Eddie's shoulder, and turned back to look out across the sea again.

"Haven't you noticed?" he said.

"Noticed what?"

Andrew closed his eyes, tilting his face upwards to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin.

"It's not raining any more."

**Author's Note:**

> A few other notes, for those interested -
> 
> The title (and some of the inspiration for the non-shippy parts of the plot) is, of course, swiped from a Bob Dylan song. The story went off in a different direction from originally intended, but I hope some of the parallels are still clear.
> 
> This story isn't in any way meant to be an accurate depiction of what the historical K/3/5 went through in the Cape Gloucester campaign, but many of the places and events described are real. The more outlandish something sounds, the more likely it is to have come directly from my research; the bravery and endurance of the men who fought there is astonishing. As an aside, the real Andrew Haldane was awarded a Silver Star for his part in the capture of the airfields.


End file.
